Third (time's a charm)
by IvyDawn
Summary: All good things come in threes - and so do brothers apparently. When John Watson meets Emrys "Merlin" Holmes through a series of unusual murders, his life is once again turned upside down and his world view maybe just a tiny bit shattered. Also, there are princes and plots and possibly just a little speck of magic. Mummy Hunith is not pleased.
1. Spark

Family was not a notion one would associate with one Sherlock Holmes.

Now, of course John knew that he ___had_ family, in fact, he had gotten to know Mycroft quite well (if you can consider being kidnapped on a semi-regular basis getting to know someone) and of course he had heard about the elusive "mummy".

Still, family simply wasn't something that sprung to mind when thinking about Sherlock. Especially not ___Sunday family dinners_.

John was quite aware of the fact that pretty much every family was somewhat dysfunctional (cf. his relationship with Harry) but from what he had been able to observe the Holmes family really took it to a whole nother level.

Which was why he had simply assumed that they would never so something as disgustingly ___quaint_ as family dinners.

Apparently he had been wrong.

Mycroft was standing in their living room, ever present umbrella by his side and a frown on his face while he was regarding his younger brother with a look that managed to convey equal parts disapproval and warning.

"This Sunday at seven. Mummy would be terribly upset were you to be absent, Sherlock," he stressed. "Also, Emrys is coming and apparently finally wants us to meet the mystery boyfriend," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from the book he was pretending to read.

His brother sighed, then turned around and looked straight at John, who instinctively sat up straight. "You're explicitly invited as well, Dr Watson," he addressed him. "Mummy and Emrys expressed great interest in meeting you." Sherlock twitched slightly at this but still didn't deign to actually lift his head.

John startled, giving Mycroft his best ___Who, me? _look without even meaning to. Sherlock's ___mother_ out of all people wanted to meet him? Then it dawned on him that this could be an incredible gold mine of blackmail information on Sherlock. Having dinner with the family, that always meant embarrassing stories, right? He swallowed, finally reacting with a still surprised sounding "Okay."

Mycroft gave them both one last hard look. "All right," he said, turning towards the stairs. "See you both on Sunday then."

The moment he had vanished out the door Sherlock snapped the book shut. "We're not going," he was quick to inform John. The doctor just raised his eyebrows. "Well," he answered slowly, considering the idea, "maybe you're not going, but I sure am."

He couldn't deny that he was incredibly curious about Sherlock's childhood, had in fact quite often wondered about what kind of child Sherlock had been (a rude one, for sure). Now with the opportunity to actually hear about it presenting itself he would definitely take it to talk to Sherlock's mother and... that second name mentioned, Emrys?

"Who is that Emrys person anyway?" he asked.

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Sherlock answered. „My brother," he finally replied curtly. John blinked. Once. Twice. And a third time, just for good measure.

"Wait. What. Your brother? As in another brother of yours? As in a brother like Mycroft?"

"He's very unlike Mycroft, actually."

"There's three of you? Really?"

"Yes, John. Honestly, keep up. And we're not going." Without even bothering to roll his eyes at his flatmate (it was implied in the tone) Sherlock grabbed his book and strode from the room. John stayed behind, still mulling over the idea of yet another Holmes brother.

* * *

They ended up not going, thanks to a suspiciously conveniently-timed request by Lestrade.

To his own surprise John found himself to be rather disappointed.

* * *

It took several weeks and a body for the topic of Emrys to make an appearance in his life again. Or rather, a series of bodies.

John was enjoying a quiet evening with some tea, typing up some of his notes on their last case and listening to Mrs. Hudson prattle on about the latest gossip, intermittently making encouraging noises to signal that he was listening. Apparently, Victoria Beckham had worn an absolutely stunning dress to a highly important charity gala organized by some Duchess, and the Prince had looked incredibly handsome in some custom-tailored Italian suit ("Young Arthur, all grown up!").

Sometimes he enjoyed these rare peaceful and rather homey moments far more than he cared to admit, simply sitting back and letting himself unwind. John allowed himself a quiet little smile. Because this was his life and his life was inherently unfair Lestrade chose this exact moment to burst into his little bubble of domestic bliss, effortlessly killing it by talking about the fourth victim of a killing series and asking them to hop into the next cab.

Not even twenty minutes later John found himself at a crime scene, painstakingly avoiding Donovan's glares and looking at a dead woman who was still holding a delicate tea cup in her grasp, lying on plush carpet of her tastefully decorated living room.

'It's ironic like that', he mused, thinking about his own cup of tea at home that was probably as cold as the body in front of him by now. Still, if he were to be completely honest, he really wouldn't trade the rush of crime solving for anything, especially not quiet tea evenings. 'Sorry,' he thought at the dead girl while putting on gloves, feeling slightly guilty. He couldn't help but notice that her tea had spilled and her carpet was ruined beyond repair.

Glancing up he saw Sherlock staring at the body, quietly muttering something to himself, while Lestrade was leaning in the doorway, looking at him expectantly.

"She's the fourth one we've found," Lestrade offered. "There is no discernible cause of death. Not in any of the cases. Molly is still working on it, but so far – nothing. They're just... not alive."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes. Very accurate description of being dead, thank you. John, what do you think?"

John looked up from where he was crouching next to the body. "She has been dead for at least twelve hours, no defensive wounds at all, no obvious cause of death I can make out. A beetle appears to have crawled into her right ear, though. I'll need something to get it out, can't see it clearly from here."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "This beetle is actually the reason we called you," he inserted, "since we found the same beetle at all of the previous scenes we don't believe in coincidence anymore."

"What?" Sherlock's gaze snapped right up. "And you waited until ___now_ to call me in? Do you ___want _people to end up dead?"

The Detective Inspector actually looked somewhat uncomfortable when he replied. "We didn't make the connection earlier. Beetles aren't exactly rare and the other ones weren't found in the victim's ear but rather just somewhere in the room. It was only when we sent one of them in for further investigation that forensics discovered that this type of beetle has actually never been seen before. So we sent the ones from the other crime scenes in and they realised that all of them are the same unknown kind of beetle."

"Hm," Sherlock didn't comment further and instead went back to thoroughly examining both the room and the body. He spent an extraordinary long time looking at a simple black tattoo with a swirly design near the woman's collarbone and staring at the ridiculously large collection of herbs and spices she had had stored in her kitchen.

By now John had become quite used to Sherlock's occasionally (alright, often) strange behaviour at crime scenes and didn't even bat an eye at Sherlock taking several photos of the tattoo, collecting some kitchen herbs and then grabbing a pair of tweezers, pulling out the beetle in question and dropping it into a ziploc bag.

However, he ___did_ find it quite unusual that he did all of this in complete silence. John knew that Sherlock loved, no, almost___needed_ to rant during his thought processes, especially at crime scenes, so the fact that right now he was simply pressing his lips together with a look that gradually became more and more grim alarmed him slightly. Also, John realised that he actually missed being involved in Sherlock's deduction and getting a glimpse into that utterly fascinating mind.

"Alright," Sherlock finally announced, ziploc bag still in hand, "we'll need to get going." And without further comment, he dashed out the door, and John – sending one last apologetic look at Lestrade – had no choice but to follow.

Outside, Sherlock had already managed to flag down a cab and was halfway in when John caught up, sliding in next to him.

"Where are we going?" he asked, pulling the car door shut behind him.

"Imperial College," Sherlock answered, addressing both John and the driver.

"Alright. Why?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to pay my brother a visit"

John frowned. "How do you even know where Mycroft is right now? Nevermind, I don't want to know..."

"Not Mycroft. We're going to see Emrys," Sherlock replied a bit too nonchalantly. "No normal biologist will recognize his beetle. But Emrys is...___talented_ in some unusual ways."

John snorted. It figured that with the surname Holmes this Emrys would be some kind of hyper-intelligent scientist.

"We haven't seen each other for some time," Sherlock went on, "and I definitely don't feel like catching up, so we will simply drop off the beetle and be on our way."

With a small frown and a growing suspicion John looked over to his partner. "How long exactly is 'some time'?"

"Might have been three or four years now."

Out of the corner of his eyes John saw the corner Sherlock's mouth twitching into a half-smile. John just leaned back into his seat, he didn't even bother with being surprised anymore.

As they pulled up to a sleek building, obviously belonging to some kind of Science Department, Sherlock leaned forward to the cabbie and said "Wait for us. We won't be long."

Somehow, Sherlock seemed to know exactly where he would find his brother, striding purposefully along the corridors and finally halting before a simple white door, beyond which a laboratory was to be found according to the small badge next to it.

"Here it is."

Sherlock let John enter first.

There was a young man – almost a more of a boy than a man – hunched over a cluttered table, entirely focused on the microscope in front of him. He was all dark hair and cheekbones, tall even while sitting down, elegant hands – yes, John could see the resemblance. It was almost eerie how much he looked like Sherlock when he was working on one thing or another.

At the sound of the door opening the man - Emrys - turned around and at the sight of John he immediately sprung to his feet and started to beam at him with a smile that split his entire face and made his sharp eyes crinkle. Oh. Alright. Family resemblance gone.

"Dr. Watson! It's great to finally meet you in person, I'm a huge fan of your blog," he said, clasping John's hand and shaking it with vigour.

Thrown off by the enthusiastic greeting and the utter lack of surprise the man displayed John hesitated. "Um. Yes. Hello. You're Emrys, I presume?"

"Oh please, call me Merlin. No one calls me Emrys, unless you count my brothers, and they only do it because they're prats anyway."

The man was still smiling and John instinctively smiled back. Only now when faced with the real thing he realised that he had subconsciously expected someone very different. Someone more like Sherlock and Mycroft, he supposed, someone mysterious and somewhat threatening and maybe also slightly insulting. Someone powerful. But his first impression of Merlin told him that the youngest Holmes wasn't like that at all. In fact, Merlin seemed to be a rather normal, if a bit overly friendly college student.

Apparently, Sherlock had briefly hovered outside, because he only now fully stepped into the room and approached both of them. Neither brother said anything, simply looking at each other for a moment (Merlin still beaming), until Sherlock dropped the bag containing the beetle onto Merlin's desk with a brisk "I need this identified."

Merlin grinned, though it looked slightly strained now. " You must be truly desperate to come to me for help, brother ." At Sherlock's blank look his smile dimmed and he sighed, expression turning serious. "Alright, no pop culture references. I'll try to figure something out and let you know once I've found something."

There was a brief pause while Merlin was obvious ly looking for words but just as he drew a breath to speak, Sherlock cut him off, gave a curt nod and whisked both John and himself out of the lab.

John barely had time to think 'That was fast' before they were out of the building again.

* * *

"Are you sure Merlin is related to you? He seemed so... normal," he asked once they were back in their cab. Sherlock snorted.

"Don't let him fool you. Honestly, out of the three of us, he's probably the least normal."

* * *

When they entered their flat one cab ride later, John immediately noticed something amiss. There was a bright yellow post-it stuck to the skull on the mantlepiece. While John proceeded to carefully approach it, Sherlock simply strode ahead and ripped the note off to take a closer look.

It said "Elanthia Beetle (Muirden)", signed with a single M and something that looked like a little doodle of a smiling dragon.

Sherlock shook is head, managing to look annoyed while at the same time somewhat pleased.

"Is this... from Merlin?" John asked, squinting at the M suspiciously.

"He dislikes texting. At least he's not using that blasted owl anymore."

John opened his mouth to protest – there was absolutely ___no way_ Merlin could've made it to their flat and broken in just to leave a note in time – but gave up before the words escaped him. At the end of the day, impossible things tended to happen around Sherlock a lot. Or anyone called Holmes, really.

"Huh. I suppose they ___are_ related after all."

* * *

Someone called Edwin Muirden was found dead the next morning, the same mysterious beetles in both of his ears. He was the last victim. After this, the killings simply stopped without the one responsible being found. Sherlock was uncharacteristically disinclined to further pursue this mystery, turning his attention towards other cases.

After that one time Merlin – or Emrys, as Sherlock seemed to insist on calling him – wasn't brought up again, even though John did try to get more information on him.

Sherlock had been... different around Merlin and for that reason alone John found the third brother inherently interesting. Of course John had given up on figuring Sherlock out a long time ago but still he couldn't quite subdue his curiosity when it came to his enigma of a flatmate.

Still, it was obvious that Sherlock wasn't inclined to talk about his brother and if John knew one thing about his flatmate it was how incredibly stubborn he could be. So John ___really_ hadn't expected their lives to become closely entwined with Merlin's, to be honest, he had expected to never see that man again. After all, no matter how interesting Sherlock's family was, Merlin's existence had no real impact on the lives of the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street.

Almost three months later John realised many things, some of them wonderful, some of them terrifying, all of them incredible. But most of all, he realised one thing:

He had been really, ___really_ wrong.


	2. Ignition

The next time John saw Merlin, it was on TV.

It was perfectly lovely June day with both Sherlock and John sitting on Mrs Hudson's couch, nibbling on freshly baked butter biscuits and following Trooping the Colour live as she had insisted on them watching the King's Birthday Parade together. And they knew better than to refuse Mrs. Hudson anything.

The parade really was quite the spectacle and the whole thing was made even better by Sherlock leisurely deducing the private lives of everyone who happened to appear on screen. Also, whenever John saw King Uther he couldn't help thinking about that one special ashtray sitting innocently in their living room. Supressing a giggle that threatened to escape he helped himself to another biscuit, just as Mrs. Hudson started scolding Sherlock for claiming that there was no way the Countess of Wessex really was the daughter of her father, the late Lord Gorlois.

"Really Sherlock, you shouldn't be saying such horrible things," she reproached him. "The poor dear lost both her parents so young."

On screen the TV hosts, their badges proclaiming them to be Isolde and Tristan, took over as the parade drew to a close with the Royal Family returning to Buckingham Palace, just to re-appear on the balcony to observe the flypast of the Royal Air Force. John wondered whether he might know any of the pilots. 'Probably not,' he decided.

It was comfortable, sitting here. In fact, ___life _was pretty comfortable at the moment. Now of course his life wouldn't be considered anything even close to relaxing by normal standards – after all, he did split his time between working at a clinic, being an internet phenomena, hunting criminals and preventing the occasional international crisis - but after the entire Moriarty affair all other criminals appeared pretty tame in comparison.

The camera was now showing close-ups of the Royal Family, which led to a running commentary on far too many articles of clothing for John to care for. Even though even he had to admit that both Prince Arthur and the Lady Morgana looked frighteningly good, his head gleaming golden in the bright sunlight while she appeared like a painting come to life.

Tristan was in the middle of commenting on the Lady's hat (a rather stunning thing by up-and-coming designer Drea Howden) when within a fraction of a moment the picturesque scene was pierced by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

John couldn't really make out what happened, one moment everyone was serenely standing in the sun, facing the sky to track the RAF display, and the next everything had descended into utter chaos.

The glass door right behind where the Prince had been standing was shattered, tiny shards glittering crystalline in the sun, strewn about the entire balcony. John felt his heartbeat with a sudden clarity, a steady thump-thump-thump against his chest. There was a beat of silence, before everybody started shouting at once. The camera image flickered biefly but the lens stayed firmly trained upon the palace balcony.

Prince Arthur was standing several feet from where he had been, pressed flat to the wall by a man who hadn't been there just moments before. John noted with some quiet relief that the shooter had been unsuccessful, there had only been a single shot fired and it hadn't hit anything or anyone more important than the glass door. Thanks to the man who was still standing right in front of the prince, now carefully peering over his shoulder to check for lingering threats. 'Just how did he move that fast?', crossed John's mind briefly before he took a closer look at the man's profile and felt his eyes widen in surprised recognition.

He knew that face! Deep blue eyes peering out from under a mop of dark hair, framed by rather large ears, high cheekbones casting sharp shadows in the bright sunlight - that was no other than Merlin Holmes now taking a careful step back and releasing his hold on the prince. 'What?' John turned incredulous eyes towards Sherlock, who seemed frozen in his seat, eyes fixed upon the small screen, face just a bit paler than usual.

What for heaven's sake was Sherlock's little brother doing at Buckingham Palace, preventing assassination attempts on princes?

'Well, maybe he's a consulting bodyguard', John thought, a bit wildly. Merlin had seemed so normal!

The next couple of minutes were basically a flurry of people rushing back and forth, security ushering the Royal Family into the palace, guards hurrying across the yard, police swarming out to search the surrounding area, bystanders huddling together or jostling trying to get a closer look. Tristan and Isolde – back to being professional within seconds – were asking the questions on everyone's minds.

"Who was the shooter?" - "Is anyone injured?" - "Were there any other attacks?" - "Is there an organisation behind this?" - and also "Who was that man that saved Arthur?"

'At least I know the answer to one of these questions,' thought John while he gripped Mrs Hudson's hand soothingly.

Rather quickly, information started trickling in. The last question was also the easiest one to answer at the moment, so John saw his curiosity about Sherlock's brother (at least partly) sated in a very unexpected way. He finally found out what the youngest Holmes brother actually did for a living.

"The young man in question is Emrys Holmes," Isolde explained on-screen, "a medical student who is currently working on his doctorate while assisting Dr Gaius Whitmore, Physician to the King. He is considered a personal friend of Prince Arthur and Lady Morgana."

Glancing over to his flatmate John noted that Sherlock was paying very close attention to what she was saying. If he hadn't known better he would have said that Sherlock looked almost... worried. John shot him a questioning look, but the detective only shook his head slightly. "He shouldn't have exposed himself like that," was all he offered before grabbing his phone to start texting furiously. 'Probably Mycroft," John decided.

Slightly unsettled he leaned back into the comfort of the soft couch, still holding Mrs Hudson's hand. In general, a worried Sherlock was a very good reason to start worrying as well. John unwittingly quirked a small smile. It was just such a very Holmes thing to do, being directly involved with royalty and then getting in the way of bullets. It was almost like Merlin was trying to combine traits from both Mycroft and Sherlock.

That night, John fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock making the strings on his violin sing downstairs. When he woke up the next morning, he was still playing.

* * *

Morgause was a beautiful woman in any situation but some would say that she became downright ___striking_ when angry. Cenred would be one of these people and right now she could feel the admiration in his gaze has he looked upon his Lady, obviously marvelling at the golden gleam in her eyes and the power crackling at her fingertips.

To say that she was angry would be a laughable understatement. Not only had that sniper failed at even injuring Uther's brat - reason enough to be angry, really - but that boy had appeared and used ___magic_ to save the prince. Morgause was neither a fool nor blind, she could tell when someone stopped time, even when she hadn't been able to pull that off herself yet. It was considered one of the most advanced types of magic out there and there were only a few documented cases of it in history.

Still, that boy had managed to do it almost effortlessly. Morgause could feel her blood boiling at the thought of a sorcerer that powerful using his power to save a ___Pendragon_ of all people. And his magic had felt incredibly familiar. Far too familiar.

"Cenred," she addressed the man next to her, "please inform Myror not to expect any payment."

The man gave a curt bow before swiftly disappearing, leaving Morgause to her silent fury. She couldn't understand how a sorcerer, a fellow magic user, one of her kind could betray them all like that. Those with magic were supposed to be like family, like kin, standing united against monsters like Uther Pendragon. Why in the world would that ridiculous boy try to stop someone from killing the prince? And it hadn't been the first time, either.

The moment that boy had used his magic out in the open she had recognized the rather unique signature she had encountered several times already. Morgause had attacked Prince Arthur using magical means numerous times, only to be repelled by the same magical signature each time. The entire Royal family was coated in unreasonably strong wards, all set up by the same formerly unknown magic user.

At least now she had a face to put to the magic. That boy had actually been the reason why she had chosen an entirely non-magical weapon to attack this time, in fact, she had outfitted her assassin Myror with a single magic-repelling bullet that wouldn't have been deterred by those pesky supernatural wards. She hadn't counted on someone going so far as to actually stop time to push the prince out of harm's way.

The boy was doubtlessly powerful. The question why he would support the Pendragons like that remained.

Surely he knew what Uther had done to their kind... though utterly unknown to the public the terrible time in the 80s and 90s known as the Great Purge was deeply ingrained in the mind of every single magic user in the kingdom. Morgause snarled bitterly. Of course, it was just so convenient how no one could hold Uther accountable for the prosecution of people who weren't supposed to even exist.

Well, there was no way around it, the boy needed to be dealt with. She quietly thanked the TV station for providing her with a name. It was time to learn everything there was to know about this Emrys Holmes and his life.

Hours later a considerably calmer Morgause found herself studying the blog of a certain Dr. John H. Watson. 'Well, isn't this interesting,' she pondered. The whole situation looked to be somewhat more complicated than initially expected. Determined not to let herself be worried she slowly started putting together a new plan. It would take time, but luckily she had learned how to be patient. She had waited for over twenty years, she wouldn't start getting hasty now.

* * *

For some reason, John had expected Sherlock to contact Merlin after watching him almost get shot live on television. It seemed like the normal thing to do, but of course, Sherlock rarely followed the norms. So he steadfastly refused to communicate with his brother, not even via text. In fact, he avoided the topic entirely and refrained from answering any questions.

So John took to reading the tabloids. The days right after the failed assassination attempt there was quite a bit of speculation about Merlin but unfortunately not too much actual information.

However, with time, the incident was pushed aside (though never forgotten) as more pressing matters took over.

* * *

Absolutely nothing could have prepared John for seeing Moriarty's face again. He was out getting groceries when every single screen around him lit up with the too-familiar features. In that moment, the words___Miss me? _were ineradicably etched into his memory.

The bags he was carrying spilled their contents everywhere as he dropped everything, racing home with a desperate urgency to see Sherlock he couldn't remember ever feeling before.

The moment he burst through the door and saw his flatmate standing in the room, unharmed, John actually physically felt relief flooding his entire body. One look at Sherlock's expression told him that he had already seen the message.

"It's impossible. He was dead," Sherlock breathed as he grabbed John by the shoulders, similiar relief to see him alive and well showing on his face.

John felt significantly calmer now that he had living and breathing Sherlock in front of him and raised one shoulder in a rather helpless shrug. "Well, you faked your death as well, after all," he pointed out.

"No, John. You don't understand, ___he was dead_," Sherlock insisted, eyes staring into John's intently, willing him to understand, "I made utterly, absolutely 100% sure of that. After all, I knew that ___I_ was faking death. I ___personally_ took care of this. He was___dead_."

The words 'Look who's talking' got stuck in John's throat before he could utter them. Somehow, he found his mouth too dry to swallow.

* * *

John had expected his life to become a whirlwind of action, bombs and life-threatening experiences after Moriarty's unexpected (___impossible_) return. It didn't, at least not immediately. Days passed without anything out of the ordinary happening and it was driving both himself and Sherlock to the brink of insanity.

Sherlock was out every day and almost every night, consulting the homeless network and other contacts, trying to gather information on Moriarty. The rest of his time was spent incessantly ___thinking_. For the first time, John finally understood what Sherlock meant when talking about someone thinking loudly because even when no words were uttered, he could nevertheless still hear them hanging in the air. It was maddening.

Meanwhile, John went about his usual routine.

It was a slow day at the clinic and so he found himself helping one of the new nurses with a patient who was slowly recovering from a severe case of alcohol poisoning on her first day since he was a nice human being. Alright, so his helpfulness might also have had something to do with the fact that she was rather pretty. The nurse - called Mary Morstan, as he soon discovered - wasn't just nice to look at but also great to talk to. Very soon the conversation strayed from the topic of alcohol poisoning to a playful discussion of whether he could hold his liquor or not.

Mary was laughing, brushing back a lock of her elbow-length golden hair. "Alright. Here's the challenge: How about we meet in three days after work and you drink whatever alcoholic beverage I set in front of you."

"Well," John smiled at her, playing along. "And the nature of this drink?"

"That is for me to decide. Do I have your word that you will accept, no matter what?"

"Alright. You have my word. It's a date."

Still softly smiling to himself, John went back to his own patients. He had missed this, he realised. Talking, flirting, normal social interaction with human beings who weren't infuriatingly intelligent consulting detectives or criminal masterminds out to kill him. Yes, drinks with Mary sounded like a great plan. There was obviously nothing to be done about Moriarty at the moment and he didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of completely putting his life on hold. He had secured a date with a beautiful woman. Today was turning out to be a good day after all.

* * *

At the same time in the same city, Detective Inspector Lestrade wasn't having a good day. Actually, he was having a downright ___awful_ day.

He had overslept for the first time in years, which had left him with no time for his morning shower; the milk he had poured into his coffee that morning had been spoiled, effectively also spoiling his coffee; he had run out of nicotine patches ___and_ he had run into that homewrecker of a PE teacher, his soon-to-be-ex-wife's (unfairly fit) lover on his way to work. The guy had looked freshly showered, cigarette dangling from his left hand, Starbucks coffee in his right.

Life was not fair.

Also, ever since Moriarty had inexplicably risen from the dead - a feat he had previously assumed only one Sherlock Holmes could pull off - he had been ceaselessly on high alert and it was starting to tire him out. Especially since___nothing_ happened. Waiting for the man to make a move was slowly driving him into madness.

Just to top matters off, he had arrived at the office only to find out that someone had apparently assigned him a new Sergeant without deeming it fit to consult him beforehand.

The guy had just shown up on their doorstep with a disarming smile, seemingly transferred out of nowhere and now he simply wouldn't stop___flirting_ with Donovan. It was downright sickening, not to mention highly inappropriate. Unfortunately, a quick phone call to his supervisor had confirmed the transfer as legitimate. But that didn't mean that he had to like it.

"Sergeant Greene. I would like to show you your desk, if you don't mind," he finally snapped, losing his patience when the guy started tossing his (admittedly nice-looking) hair around under the flimsy pretext of laughing. This was New Scotland Yard, not a L'Oreal ad.

"Don't worry, Gwaine," he heard Sally reassure their newest colleague as he walked ahead, "he's not always like that."

He could ___hear_ the brilliant smile when Greene answered. "I have no doubt of that. With a lady as sweet as yourself around, no one could stay that sour for long."

Lestrade managed not to vomit. Barely.

* * *

Notes: Thank you so much for reviewing! It really makes my day. :) As you can see, I'm merrily bending canon here. Currently thinking about whether I'll have any Sherlock characters with magic in addition to the canon Merlin ones. If you have any thoughts on this, let me know!


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